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I’m sure you already suspect what might have happened next. The shopkeepers would snicker about the ignorant girl in their midst, make a few jokes, then wait patiently for my date to buy his book and leave. I would shuffle out, humiliated, and decide it was better not to return. That’s certainly the stereotype that has formed about a girl’s experience in a comic book store. Which is exactly why I will be forever grateful that that’s not what happened.
The shopkeepers were amused, perhaps even a little delighted by someone who clearly knew little about American comics. It was an opportunity to mold an impressionable young nerd, to steer her away from bad storylines and set her on the path to nerdy enlightenment. While one shopkeeper chatted with my date, the other led me around the store, gently asking me what I was looking for.
“Who’s your favorite mutant? Oh, you like Nightcrawler?” he said. “I think we’ve got a few back-issues."
“What about something with really nice art?” I asked timidly. The shopkeeper adjusted his glasses, scrolling through the unseen rolodex of comics in his mind.
“Fathom is good, but I don’t think we have issue one. I bet you’d like Meridian. It’s pretty cool. We’ve got loads in the ten cent bin.”
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I returned from my date with no goodnight kiss and no budding romance, but I did have a bag stuffed with discount comics. Over the next few months, I visited DNA Comics each time I hit the mall. In that time, I didn’t become particularly comics-savvy, but I assume I became “that- cute-high-school-girl-who-likes-the-cheap-comics”, because the shopkeepers always smiled when I entered and even gave me discounts on the already dirt-cheap comics.
A year later, DNA comics closed down and, with it, my budding education in Western comics. All my peers still favored manga so, naturally, I followed suit. But that dim interest remained. So, when a friend introduced me to a new comic book store years later, I had to try it out.
The Fat Ogre wasn’t the sort of place I expected to welcome me. It was largely a tabletop gaming store, and gamers had a reputation for shunning women from their territory. Even though I went with a friend who loved the staff enough to bring them cookies, I crept in like a green warrior seconds away from her first battle. I donned brashness and overconfidence like armor, determined not to be mocked. No. I’d be the other woman. The one so dolled up, so aloof and outwardly confident, nobody would dare approach me much less tease me. After all, I was no longer that cute little fourteen-year-old. The leeway DNA Comics had given me might not extend to the Fat Ogre.
The store was twice the size of DNA comics, with double the trade paperbacks available and, subsequently, double the clientele. What the staff thought of the tense, uncomfortable girl who wandered into their midst, I have no idea. They were far too busy with their regular clientele: the tabletop gamers who overtook half the store. But I bought a Firefly comic and a plastic Green Lantern ring without incident, so they must not have been too bothered. In my subsequent visits, the Fat Ogre smoothed my hackles as a gentle hand calms a wild animal. When I took an interest in Squirrel Girl and they didn’t have comics featuring her, a friendly shopkeeper directed me to a similarly earnest young character, Nomad. When I journeyed in searching for Nightcrawler, Harley Quinn, or Hawkeye, someone was always happy to discuss the character with me. Heck, when I came in on Free Comic Book Day, the male and female staff greeted me and offered me extra swag to take to friends who couldn’t come in.
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“Oh no, you don’t want to read that if you’re not familiar with her,” he said, and led me to their trade hardback section. “Try this. Sting of the Black Widow. I’m afraid we only have it in hardback, but if you really want to know her history, this is what you want to read.”
It was easily the most expensive comic I’d bought to date, so it’s a testament to the trust I put in the Fat Ogre staff that I said “Okay!” and bought a hardcover trade compilation of comics for a character I hardly knew. While I was checking out, the shopkeeper laughed and told me about some of his favorite Black Widow moments. Like the time she showed up in the bed of blind Daredevil, or her remark at the funeral of Hercules.
“So then Black Widow says, ‘Yeah, he was a great lay’. And right then, every other female in the room nods and says ‘Oh yeah’. Like, all of them.”
What he said: Black Widow has some funny, sex-related situations and she’s not ashamed about them.
What he did not say: What a tramp!
"Slut."
Now, when I was 9, I’d been roughhousing with a boy on the playground. Well, I say roughhousing. Really, I was teasing and pestering him because, back then, I didn’t understand that what your brothers will put up with, a boy at school might not. The boy in question tried to shove me off and, in so doing, accidentally rammed his elbow hard into my stomach. The air hissed out between my teeth. I dropped to the ground, tears springing to my eyes as I struggled to breathe. Of course, the boy was instantly apologetic and when everyone made a big fuss about it, we reassured all of them that it wasn’t a fight. But after that day, I knew what it felt like to be rammed in the gut, and I stopped pestering him.
Standing in the Fat Ogre, I felt like that teenager had just slugged me in the gut. I sputtered, to angry even to speak. The shopkeeper shot him a glare, but said nothing else. After all, half his store was packed with teenaged boys competing in gaming tournaments. He was used to it.
At last, I found my voice.
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“She’s just a slut,” he guffawed. "Look at her. She's only there to have sex."
Then, with the swagger of an idiot, he sauntered out the store. I turned back to the shopkeeper, a sour taste in my mouth. He didn’t say anything as he sold me my book. I didn’t say anything as I shuffled out the door, feeling strangely off balance. For so long I’d assumed the stereotypes about comic book stores were wrong. I’d believed they were perpetually safe, tolerant places where we all met to escape a harsher, less forgiving world. It seemed that they, like any other community, could be infiltrated by the rude and close-minded.
Of course, one bad experience wasn’t enough to tarnish my love of a good comic book store. I moved to Austin and fell for ABC comics next, where I met with a similarly diverse and welcoming staff (“Oh man, if you’re interested in Winter Soldier you have to start with the original appearance. It’s hands down one of the best I’ve ever read.” “Hm, I’m not familiar with X-23, but so-and-so knows all about her.” “Well, we haven’t got the new Firefly trade, but our sidekick store does. Here are their hours. Wait until you read it!”). A life-sized Hulk and Silver Surfer guarded the back issues. Shelves stretched so high, the shopkeepers needed ladders to reach the tops. It seemed as though every comic ever printed was available in that monstrous store. From within that haven, it was hard to imagine that there was anyone on earth who didn’t want to read comics.
Of course, I’ve run into my fair share of bad comic book stores. There were run-down shacks with yellowing walls and grimy carpet, dusty stores with shopkeepers who fussed at you for flipping through a comic without buying it. When there were no specialty shops available, I bought my comics from Amazon and Half Price Books just like anyone else, but there’s nothing quite like the comfort of walking into one of my stores. It’s like coming home. But even home can sometimes feel unwelcome on the worst days.
Even now, I can’t help remembering that off-hand comment from an idiot boy, particularly when I hear the story of someone who’s felt unwanted in a store or a convention. The words hiss in my ear like a little shoulder devil with a hoodie and bad acne.
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Slut.
Then there was the professional cosplayer. "The first time I walked into a comic book shop, totally scared and intimidated, the man behind the counter greeted my boyfriend, but not me. My boyfriend at the time asked where the gaming accessories are, and he pointed him in the right direction. I asked for help with comics, and he told me that there was a new Lady Gaga comic that had just come out. Condescendingly."
Just look at her.
And the sales woman. "I work at comic conventions. But every time I work I get asked if I'm a 'booth babe' and then they always seem astounded that I even know what the comics are about. Let alone be able to actually sell them something they might want to read. It usually leads them to take a picture of me saying I'm a 'rare breed'. Which is really just downright rude and I'm normally scowling for the picture."
She's only there to have sex.
Even the computer programmer. "Guys get it too, though. Apparently I'm not 'geeky' enough because I only play Magic and don't fawn over comics."
I can feel the elbow in my gut every time a friend describes one of these experiences. How is this possible? How have I had such good luck when so many have felt marginalized and unwanted? What kind of a businessman knowingly alienates a potential demographic like that? Don’t they realize they’re stopping a fan before they can even start?
The theories about this sort of behavior are rampant. Some boil it down to basic sexism: some men in these communities can’t separate women from sex, and other women would rather renounce a newcomer than risk being labeled “fake”. But it happens to men, too. In this community, to be fake is to be a pariah. It is the spy exposed, the villain outed, the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Yet in all my years of attending conventions, visiting comic book shops, and attending clubs, I have never met a person who did not want to be exactly where they were. Who on earth would spend their precious time and money on comics, costumes, movies, and merchandise if they didn’t like the core subject? What sort of person could possibly think someone would?
Perhaps it’s a superiority complex. These individuals pride themselves on their vast knowledge, blaming their passion for comics or gaming for their poor social skills. As such, they take on the behavior of a cornered cat when their safe haven is suddenly invaded by newcomers with less knowledge and experience: people who must not be real nerds, geeks, or fans. The invaders must be cast out!
For all that I’ve been accepted, I suddenly find myself raising my guard when I enter a new store. Will I pass the test? Is my hair sufficiently frizzy, my glasses thick enough? Should I have worn that geeky Star Wars shirt instead of my business blouse? I peruse the shelves in one of my stores, watching out of the corner of my eye as unfamiliar men pass by. My heart thuds. My mouth goes dry. I pray he will leave me in peace. When he does, I breathe out a sigh of relief. For one more day, I am accepted. I am not a part of a shameful statistic.
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This growing fear of the “fake” geek echoes with an ignorance reminiscent of the Red Scare. If I wander into the wrong store at the wrong time and fail to produce some obscure bit of superhero trivia as geek identification, will I be blacklisted? I envision storm troopers crashing into my room, ripping down my Doctor Who posters, burning my comics and DVDs.
“Should have made your date take you shoe shopping instead,” I can almost hear one of them say. “Shouldn’t have gone where you weren’t wanted.”
Part of me wants to paint a huge sign to plant in front of the Fat Ogre or ABC Comics, reading “Safe for All: No Jerks Here!” just so the next fourteen-year-old girl who wanders by knows that, contrary to the stereotype, she’ll be welcome. I certainly was, and my life is better for it.
| Chelsea Smith is a writer based out of Houston Texas. When she isn't writing, she's teaching in a Montessori school. When she isn't doing that, she's strategically building friendships with people in a number of disciplines in the hope of someday putting together a team for the first ever time travel expedition. Once the physicist and engineer friends get the time machine working. |
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